Although today I make my living as a writer, cooking was my chosen profession for 10 years. My mother, whose sense for the perfect ingredient was rivaled only by the likes of Julia Child and James Beard, acted as my professor in the culinary arts, and I accumulated credits as I loitered in her kitchen.

But when I reconnected with an old lover -- my very first lover, in fact, and the first man I have known intimately since my marriage ended -- everything my mother had passed on to me fluttered out the kitchen window.

My lover, a luscious French-Italian mélange of a man, apprenticed at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. He was a private chef for years, preparing meals for the rich and famous, waltzing around the kitchen like Fred Astaire, his hands in sync with his taste buds, his feet in rhythm with the cadence of the KitchenAid.

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I fell in love with him when I was 18, a naive college freshman with only a few good recipes to my name. Three years my senior, he introduced me to french fries with vinegar, scrambled eggs with Tabasco -- and sex. After five years of on-again, off-again romance, we went our separate ways.

Two years ago -- with three broken marriages, three children and three decades between us -- we were reunited at a family gathering. We spent the weekend catching up, flirting and competing over which one of us made the better brownies. Mine, which I had brought to the party, caused everyone to drool over their rich chocolaty moistness, which surely made his gastronomic blood boil. He challenged me to a duel, our brownies the weapon of choice. We would meet in Vermont at my sister's log cabin in mid-November for a brownie bake-off.

My lover was famous for his brownies, which he sold at specialty shops in the Hamptons. One bite that weekend in November and I was inescapably infatuated.

We spent the winter writing to each other, blowing kisses through the mail. Toward the end of May last year, we rendezvoused at a small seaside resort, consecrating our renewed affection with the finest foods we could find.

Our romance continued with weekend trysts at my provincial New England home. As a single mom and freelance writer, macaroni and cheese was the most challenging dish in my repertoire, and I was more at ease with a word processor than a Cuisinart. I was intimidated by my lover's vast knowledge of food preparation and his endless scrutiny of ingredients.

So the first time he came to my house, I chose to prepare a dessert I had rehearsed many times before. Summer pudding, a classic English dish, came to mind as the perfect showcase for the juicy berries in season during that July weekend. I tap-danced through its preparation with ease: I simply lined a bowl with slices of bread (crusts removed), poured in a compote of gently simmered fruit, covered the top with more bread and chilled the dish until it reached a puddinglike consistency. Served with a classic crème anglaise, it is always a showstopper, its presentation alone a feast for the eyes.

He was duly impressed. And then I challenged him to a quiz: Could he successfully identify all of the ingredients?

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